The Highwayman and the Vicar's Daughter
by Laurentius Aaronius
Summary: This is an excerpt of a novella inspired by Alfred Noyes' poem, "The Highwayman." I'll be posting about a third of the work here. If you enjoy it and want to read more, you'll be able to buy it through Amazon or other e-reader services, or possibly through a private email subscription. The later chapters might possibly be rated MA. If there were a third Genre, I'd choose Friendship
1. Chapter 1

_And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,__  
><em>_When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,  
>When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,<br>A highwayman comes riding—_  
><em> Riding—riding—<em>  
><em>A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.<em>  
>– Alfred Noyes, "The Highwayman," 1906<p>

**1**

It is a truth seldom acknowledged, that those things which one should _not_ want, are the very things one wants the most.

Yet as often as this principle may lead to error and ruin, it may on occasion lead to that object without which any happiness is impossible. I will leave it to the reader to judge which outcome the following tale illustrates.

* * *

><p>The first time I saw the highwayman, his hand was upon my breast and his tongue was in my mouth. He had demanded my necklace at the point of a pistol, yet I had hesitated to hand the precious treasure over, protesting that it had been my poor departed mother's, one of the few objects I had by which to remember her. The highwayman only laughed, then spoke in a voice that attempted gruffness more than achieving it, like a boy straining for the tones of manhood: "Then I'll have it, with interest."<p>

I don't quite know how he managed it, what with leaning into the carriage door and keeping one hand on his pistol. With his other, he lifted the crêpe he wore to disguise his face and placed his lips on my own, just as I gave a gasp of surprise. His tongue entered my parted lips and began exploring within in a most lascivious manner. I couldn't help noticing he was remarkably clean-shaven, with none of that scratchy, three-days' growth of beard one associates with a ruffian. Too, he must have been quite fastidious in his toilette, as a scent of rosewater assailed my senses.

While his tongue was busy in its explorations, his free hand was at my breast, having its pleasure there. Such a feeling came over me as I can hardly describe: a warmth flooding through my limbs as my heart beat faster – if that were possible – and my breath coming rapidly. Leaving off with his kissing and groping, his hand went to the back of my neck and deftly undid the clasp of the necklace. While he performed this operation, his eyes remained fixed on my own, alive with a gleeful light, as though robbing carriages and molesting their occupants was the most exalting occupation in the world. And something more: those eyes saw deep into me, as if they knew with a certainty the feelings those lips and that roving hand had caused.

"It's been a pleasure doing business with you, your ladyship," the highwayman said as he pocketed the treasure, then turned his attention on my companions: Mrs. Simmons, who had once been my governess and now served as a lady's companion; and Lord Anthony Cranford, Viscount Burnside, whom my father hoped would soon ask for my hand in marriage. Contrary to the style the highwayman had given me, I was not of the nobility, for Father was Vicar of Leighton Parish, of which Anthony's father, Earl Highdown, was the patron. Indeed, the carriage in which we rode belonged to his Lordship; Father had taken it as a sign of Anthony's deepening affection for me when that young man had offered to escort us on a shopping excursion to Exeter. As doubtful as I was about that motive – for Anthony claimed also to have business in town – I had been happy to accept this offer from one I considered a friend.

Feeling Anthony's and Mrs. Simmons' attention directed at me, rather than on the pistol now aimed at Anthony's chest, I became distraught. My cheeks felt flushed, and not only with that natural embarrassment prompted by the highwayman's shocking behavior. I had long been taught that an ability to master one's feelings, keeping them well hidden behind a mask of composed equanimity, was the truest mark of gentility and good breeding. Now, however, all my efforts at self-mastery seemed futile. To avoid my demeanour being misconstrued – or, to be more accurate, to avoid it being construed correctly – I feigned to faint, collapsing sideways onto the unoccupied seat next to my own. With eyes half closed, I attended to the events that followed as well as I was able.

Mrs. Simmons made to rush to my side, but the highwayman waved her back with the pistol. "Your charge is in perfect health, ma'am, she's just never been properly kissed ere now. Your Lordship, if you will be so kind as to hand over your purse and that gold ring, sparing us the stories of what an important family heirloom it is."

"I'll see you hanged for this!" Anthony exclaimed as he brought the purse forward.

"A sentiment one hears all too often in this trade, I'm afraid," the highwayman responded with an exaggerated sigh. "Fortunately it has yet to come to pass. Now, ma'am, those packages beneath your seat."

Tossing the packages to his waiting associates – yards of good silk and a new set of silver spoons, for Father and Mrs. Simmons hoped to entertain Lord Highdown and his son in grander fashion than we had done in the past – the rogue made his farewell:

"Ladies, gentleman, we thank you for your kind patronage, and may you have a safe journey home." A moment later, the thunder of hooves carried the outlaws away.

Instantly Mrs. Simmons was at my side, assessing the effects of the highwayman's assault on my person. "Miss Elizabeth, are you well? Can you speak?" She chafed my wrists as she spoke.

I made a show of regaining my senses, opening my eyes to see Mrs. Simmons and Anthony staring at me with the gravest concern. "That was quite a shock," I said, my hand to my breast, as if to calm my beating heart.

"We should get you home as quickly as may be so you can rest," Anthony said, rapping with his walking stick on the roof of the carriage. I accepted their attentions, and then when the talk turned to the state of the roads and the advisability of arming the footmen, I went over the strange events in my mind, not at all sure that rest was what I most needed at the moment.


	2. Chapter 2

**2**

That Sunday week, Father discovered a pair of new parishioners in the receiving line after church. "Ah, newcomers!" he exclaimed. "We are always most gratified at any addition to our flock."

"And we are glad to receive such a warm welcome in your charming neighbourhood," said the man, who appeared to be in his late twenties, dressed in a blue tailcoat of a modern cut and new boots. "I am Thomas Nighthorn, and this is my sister, Mrs. Burgess." The latter was a woman considerably younger than her brother, and nearly as tall as he. She wore a fine chemise dress, though not in the latest fashion; a mass of light brown curls peaked out from beneath her bonnet.

As the pair were the last through the line, we had the opportunity for further conversation. It soon came out that Mrs. Burgess was a widow, and had moved from London for her health. "The air in town did not agree with me," she said. "I remained only because of my husband's posting at Deptford. But, alas, we lost him in the Glorious First of June."

"Your husband was in the Navy?" asked Mrs. Simmons.

"Yes, he was captain of HMS Eagle, which took many casualties in that great battle."

"Oh, you poor thing, all alone here, save for your brother," said Mrs. Simmons. "When will we see the end of these wars? There's scarce a family has not been touched by them. We are missing our Jamie, Miss Elizabeth's brother, who is off in the colonies."

"And what will you do now?" my father asked.

"We have taken a small house in Leighton," Mrs. Burgess replied. "Unfortunately, Thomas' business keeps him much occupied in London. I will attempt to make myself useful in some way. I'm sure you can recommend charities to me, Mr. Collington."

"Indeed I can, and they will be glad to have your assistance," Father replied. "My daughter also has a passion for aiding the poor, and never fails to make the rounds of our less fortunate neighbours." Father hesitated only a moment before offering, "I hope the two of you will join us for dinner on Wednesday. I am sure we can arrange for half a dozen guests from the neighbourhood to expand your acquaintance. Perhaps the Viscount Burnside and his family will consent to join us." He turned to Anthony, who stood nearby, and gave a slight bow.

That gentleman, always careful of his manners, dipped his head in return. He was of middling height, with blond hair cut shaggily about his ears. His fine tailcoat, waistcoat and breeches were all of muted colours, greys and whites. "As much as I regret missing any opportunity to welcome newcomers to our neighbourhood," he said, "I must sadly decline, for we will be off to London for the season that very day." His blue eyes, full of earnest regret, slid from Father to me as he finished delivering this news.

"And I must regretfully answer in the negative as well," Mr. Nighthorn put in, "as I return to London tomorrow. But I am certain my sister would be glad of the company."

"Indeed I would," she said. "But you are too kind, Vicar. Please, do not put yourself out to assemble a large party on my account. I will be quite content to further my acquaintance with you and your charming daughter." And here she turned to smile at me, leaving me wondering what I had done that she could have found charming. We parted soon after.

The news of Anthony's departure for London and its accompanying reflection – that he was likely to be surrounded by dozens of marriageable girls in that city – gave me only a moment's pang of jealousy; for, unlike Father and Mrs. Simmons, I had long since ceased to think it likely a match could be made between us. Anthony and I had known each other from a young age, as the Parsonage and the parish church sat on the eastern border of Holbourne, Lord Highdown's ancestral estate. Anthony was four years older than I, and had only recently returned from Oxford, where the Earl had sent him to study the law**. **He was a good sort, always the perfect gentleman, attractive in both person and manner, and attentive to my family's needs as a friend and neighbour, as was Lord Highdown. The latter had always humoured our friendship, as befitted the patron of Father's living and neighbours of different ranks living so close by, precisely because a match between us was impossible. Lord Highdown was imperious, always conscious of rank and wealth, and confident in his ability to rule his son, the heir to the Earldom and clearly meant for grander things. Whatever Anthony's feelings toward me may have been, a connection with my family could offer neither money nor status; nor did I sense that spark of passion within Anthony that would compel defiance of his father's wishes.

To all of which, Father and Mrs. Simmons had counselled patience and a willingness to put myself in the way of Anthony's affections. My future security depended on it, they said, as few other eligible bachelors lived in the vicinity, and opportunities of meeting those beyond our neighbourhood were scant. Father regretted not being able to send me to London for the season, but that was for families with better connections and greater fortunes than our own. And so they persisted in believing that a match with Anthony was my best chance an establishment in life, despite its slim likelihood. In every other respect, Father was a sensible man, yet on this one topic, he persisted in letting his care and ambition for me cloud his better judgment, in contradiction to everything he had ever taught my brother and me on the topic of governing our emotions with reason. From this I concluded that the cares and demands of parenthood were enough to unbalance even the most composed of minds.

Since our mother's death, Jamie and I had been brought up by Father to meet whatever life put in our way, all of its highs and lows, with equal reserve and composure. With a clear-eyed view of my prospects, I could readily admit how this approach to life could aid me, and I endeavoured to follow it, succeeding to a great extent in outward appearances, if not in my inmost thoughts. For, as I looked around me at what life was for women of my state, I could not help but admit a certain restlessness, one which took all my composure to master. In conversation with the five or six female friends my own age in the neighbourhood, I always remained polite and amiable, while inside I chafed at the insipidity of the conversation, the constant talk of the latest fashions, the prospects of any new young men coming to the neighbourhood, or which girls had been recently engaged. Surely there must be more to life than an endless list of ornamental acquisitions gained in hopes of finding a match with a partner of indifferent affection. There must be more, once such a match was gained, than shallow conversation and entertainments within a social sphere of six or eight neighbouring families, more than endless rounds of visits and balls and good works that did little to relieve the sufferings of the poor.

Nor did an advance in rank offered by a match with Anthony promise a necessary improvement, for not even a girl of eighteen, raised in a small parish in Devon, could remain ignorant of the scandalous pursuits by which the nobility sought to relieve the tedium of life, most notably that grand personage within our own shire who had been revealed as the author of that notorious novel, _The Sylph._ Only in those ranks inferior to our own did I see a style of life unmediated by rigid social convention and deference to one's betters. Perhaps it was a romantic notion of mine, but I imagined that the common people we met in the village and the countryside had a freer form of life than our own.

Thus, if I attended those pursuits by which a young woman makes herself acceptable in genteel society – needlework, drawing, music, reading (of the best novels and poetry only) – with an air of perfect concentration and enjoyment, this did not always mean that my mind was not engaged elsewhere; for I found I had a knack for making idle conversation or practicing at the pianoforte while my thoughts drifted to exotic scenes from a novel I had been reading, or to the moors where I delighted in taking long walks. In inclement weather, I found my composure challenged to the utmost, but on fine days I always took the opportunity to relieve my restlessness with lengthy rambles, during which I delighted in looking for my favourite flowers as the blooming season progressed.

Among all my improving pursuits, it was in my riding lessons that I found myself most fully engaged. Lord Highdown had been kind enough to allow me the use of a well-trained mare at any time of my pleasing, along with the expert instruction of his groomsman. I often took advantage of this generosity, relishing the freedom of the wind rushing past my cheeks as we cantered over the moors, wondering how far I might go if I chose to ride in a single direction for an entire day. My favourite were the fox hunts, to which Jamie and I had often been invited. I cared nothing for the fortune of the sportsmen – in truth, I preferred it when the poor fox got away – but I thrilled at the wild chase across fields and over hedges and streams. Of course, riding aside, I could not truly keep up with the men, but I prided myself on being able to take small jumps. None observing me might have guessed at the joy I felt on these occasions, owing to that same reserve which Father had instilled in me.

If, on this Sunday morning, Anthony's announcement had caused me little pain, it was no doubt in part due to that self-mastery which Father had taught me, but also because my thoughts were engaged elsewhere, as they often had been over the week that had passed since our encounter with the highwayman. The intervening period had given me much opportunity to ponder the loss of the necklace, as well as the feelings the experience had occasioned. It was only with difficulty, and not always with success, that I could keep my mind from wandering back to that event. I did not dwell on the fear and danger posed by the highwayman brandishing his pistol at me. Neither, as much as I sympathised with the humiliation Anthony had undergone in being robbed at gunpoint, and the fear Mrs. Simmons must have endured, were these the objects to which my mind was continually drawn back. No, it was to those moments during which the highwayman had so lewdly assaulted my person that my thoughts continually strayed, much as I attempted to draw them back to their proper course. I could hardly admit to myself that his kissing and his roving hand had occasioned something of the same thrill I experienced while riding – that, and something more.

It was unthinkable! Every consideration of sense and morality counselled that such feelings should be prompted only by one to whom I had been promised in marriage, and certainly not by a rogue with a pistol. Yet so it was, and now I met the prospect of Anthony's departure for London with an equanimity of which my Father should have been proud, though for a reason he could never have expected.

* * *

><p>Wednesday morning arrived, and Father sent me into Leighton, but a mile's walk from the Parsonage, to call on Mrs. Burgess and renew our invitation for that evening. I was putting on my bonnet in the foyer when a knock came at the door. Our housekeeper opened it to reveal Anthony.<p>

"Oh, begging your pardon, I see I have caught you on your way out," he said.

I gave a curtsy and replied, "I was just on my way to Leighton. Will you walk with me?" Mrs. Simmons gave me a knowing look as I passed out the door.

Anthony was silent as we made our way out the gate and down the lane toward the village. It was a beautiful morning, with the sun providing unexpected warmth. Our way was bounded by blackthorn hedges, now alive with the calls of the linnet, while the masses of delicate white flowers gave off a musky, sweet scent. Holbourne's pastures, sloping upward from the valley through which the lane ran, shone a brilliant green.

Remembering the reason Anthony could not join us for dinner that evening, I asked, "Are you not off to London today?"

"We leave within the hour," he said. "I wanted to pay my respects before departing."

"It is most appreciated," I said, employing that cautious reserve through which I had always hoped to safeguard both our hearts, though now my preoccupation with the highwayman also played a part.

The silence lengthened between us, and I wondered if this was all he meant to say. I was searching for a different subject for our conversation when he went on. "Is there no chance your father will send you to London for the latter part of the season?"

I allowed him half a smile, careful not to let my gaze linger too long on his bright blue eyes or the smooth skin of his high cheekbones, tanned from his recent outings afield. "I'm sure he's worried that an eligible bachelor would capture my heart and take me far from home." Anthony knew as well as I that Father had not the means to send me, along with Mrs. Simmons, to London. "No," I continued, "he is quite happy that I content myself with Devonshire society. It does not trouble me."

He was silent for several moments more, then said, "I wish I could stay in Devon. Town is not for me. Too crowded, too many people to know and their ranks to keep track of. I prefer it here in the country. I don't see what London has to offer."

"What is there to occupy you here, now that the sporting season has ended? Most gentlemen are quitting the country as quick as they can and making their way for the delights of the city." I kept my gaze firmly on the lane ahead of me, unwilling to lead him farther into danger.

"Much, Elizabeth, much," he said, stopping in the lane and placing a hand on my arm.

That was the moment at which, to please Father and Mrs. Simmons, I should have turned my pleading eyes upon him and asked, in all innocence, whatever could he mean? Following which, he would no doubt pour out his heart and kiss my hand, pledging that he would stand up to his father in choosing a mate. But I knew how that would end, for I was sure that Anthony had not the heart to defy his father for long. And even if he did, where could it lead, with a brother waiting in the wings to inherit the title and the estate, if Anthony were to throw them over in favor of a life with me? Would Anthony commit himself to a life of relative poverty and humiliation in order to marry me? I was certain not. The inevitable result would be heartbreak for us both, the loss of our friendship, and my own reputation sullied as the foolish girl who had been taken in by the frivolous romances of a nobleman.

Now I was glad for all my father's training, as it allowed me to steady myself for what I must do. I turned to look at him, masking my true feelings with more playfulness than I felt. "Come now. I haven't a doubt that you will be a great hit at the _ton._ Half of the eligible girls will be falling all over themselves to capture your attentions. I am certain you will make your parents very happy and proud."

He stopped and turned to gaze at me, struggling to maintain the same attitude with which I had addressed him. I could see in his face that the thought of defying his parents' wishes and proclaiming allegiance to his own heart was flitting across his mind, and then the change as his upbringing as a gentleman and heir to the Earldom asserted itself. "You have always been my greatest friend, Lizzie," he said. "You always have much better sense than I do."

"You sound as if you are off to war! I hope we will be the greatest of friends for years to come, when our children are playing together on family visits."

I gazed at him as calmly as I could, then we continued our walk, maintaining our silence until we reached the joining of the lane that led to his family's estate, where we bid our farewells. I continued toward town, conscious of a certain hypocrisy in urging my friend to ignore the demands of his own heart after years of acquaintance, when I could not quiet my own thoughts after one kiss from a stranger, and a rogue at that. I was glad to have the distraction of a new acquaintance to divert my attention as I approached Mrs. Burgess' house in town.

An elderly serving woman admitted me to the parlour, where I found Mrs. Burgess at work on a piece of embroidery. She greeted me cordially, rising to shake hands, and I noticed again how tall she wore a white morning dress, with her brown hair done up in a mass of curls at the top and a fringe falling in back to the base of her neck. She mentioned how glad and grateful she was for the invitation to dinner that evening, her smile lighting up her whole face, the skin around her brown eyes crinkling.

I asked her how she had hit upon Leighton as a site for her new abode.

"Oh, I am only a tenant here for now. I had thought of finding a fine house in Exeter, but the woollen industry there makes the air unhealthy, and I was troubled by the recent riots. Perhaps soon I will find a house within my means to purchase in the country hereabouts. In the meantime, I am glad to find such welcoming and congenial neighbours."

At this point we were interrupted by the housekeeper bringing in the tea things.

"I hope you don't mind," Mrs. Burgess said, as she set about to pouring the water. "I know it's not the time for it, but I thought you might enjoy some refreshment after your walk."

I consented, though I thought it a bit odd, and we continued talking about village life and the weather for several minutes longer, until I realized I was in danger of overstaying my visit. As I was making my excuses and rising to leave, Mrs. Burgess reached across the space between our seats and placed a restraining hand on my arm.

"Oh, please, don't rush off. The Captain and I never held with these rules of decorum that require visits of such a length and no longer. If we are enjoying each other's company, why should you not stay as long as you like?" She said it with such energy and affability that I could not deny her. "Besides," she went on, "you haven't finished your tea, and I have yet to learn what are your favourite books and music, and what beaux are vying for your attentions at present."

"Oh, I have beaux without number," I said with a casual air.

"Well, of course you do!" she said. "With such a fine manner and attractive – " She broke off as I looked at her steadily. "Oh, you mean you have none! You quite took me in." She smiled, as if quite pleased to have been gulled in this way. "But you have no suitors? I find that difficult to credit."

I mentioned the light populace of our region of Devonshire, and the surprising plenitude of young ladies compared to gentlemen. I did not mention Anthony. "But in truth, it is not a topic to which I give much thought," I said, hoping not to continue a subject on which I had too much discourse with my other friends.

"I quite agree," she said. "Too much contemplation of one's prospects can be gauche." She offered me a biscuit, which I declined. "And what of your family? Mrs. Simmons said your brother is overseas?"

"Yes, these past two years. He was in India the last we heard. We are only grateful his ship has avoided engagements with the French, though he regrets the poor opportunities for action and renown that have so far come in his way."

"And your mother?" she asked. She took a sip of her tea, as if she had just asked about the weather.

"She passed when I was ten," I said, looking down at my own cup.

"That must have been difficult," she said.

I nodded, staring at the swirling patterns my spoon was making. Thus far I had enjoyed this unusually intimate introductory visit, but now we had entered on a topic which was hardly appropriate for such an occasion.

The silence between us lengthened. "I lost my own mother when I was eight," Mrs. Burgess said. "It took me quite some time to realize she was gone forever. Did you find that with your own loss?"

I looked up to see her gazing at me with more concern than really proper from a near stranger.

"No – perhaps because I was older," I said, looking away from her at a drawing of a hunting scene that hung over the fireplace. It must have come as part of the furnishing of the house, I thought. I was about to ask about it as an excuse to change the topic, when Mrs. Burgess went on.

"Nothing can replace a mother's love, can it?"

Really, this was too familiar. "Mrs. Simmons has taken good care of my brother and me," I said at length.

"Of course she has. I could see the love with which she spoke of your brother on the day we met. I had a governess as well, a kind, matronly woman. But it cannot be the same, can it? The loss of a mother at such a young age – it must change one in some irrevocable way, mustn't it?"

I looked all about the room as I struggled to formulate an answer. "I hardly know. Father – Father praised me for bearing the loss so well. If I mentioned her, he would cut me off with exclaiming over the bravery I had shown up to then."

"So it did change you."

I nodded. "I became the brave little girl Father wanted me to be." My tea must be cold by now, yet I had hardly touched it.

"And you never grieved for your mother."

I looked up at her. It was impertinent of her to speak as if we were already intimates; yet, seeing the tender look she gave me, I felt none of the impropriety of such familiarity. "No," I whispered, my lip trembling. How quickly she had pierced my reserve!

She reached out to put a hand on my arm. "I apologize," she said. "I didn't mean to make you melancholy. It's just that I've grown so used to talking about my mother and her loss; I didn't realize it wasn't the same for you."

It was strange to realize that, in eight years, no one had shown as much concern for my mother's death as this woman of the briefest acquaintance. As unusual as it was, I couldn't think it wrong. I left her house after overstaying my visit by three quarters of an hour, thinking she would make a welcome addition to the neighbourhood.


	3. Chapter 3

**3**

Father and our guests were equally impressed with Mrs. Burgess. The party made nine. The remainder, in addition to our special guest and Mrs. Simmons, who always dined with us as one of the family, were Mrs. Smith, an older widow with an estate near town; Mr. and Mrs. Ramsay, neighbours with extensive holdings on the other side of Holbourne from us; and Mr. Graves, a barrister, and his wife. Mrs. Burgess answered all their questions, some of them quite impertinent, with good grace, frankness, and cordiality.

When the conversation turned to my father's sermon of the past Sunday, Mr. Graves remarking that it had been a particularly insightful one, Mrs. Burgess took the opportunity to question Father on several points regarding Free Will, bringing in the poems of Alexander Pope. "Is it not simply human arrogance that suggests we can be other than as God made us," she asked, glancing over in my direction once or twice, "whatever suffering that entails?"

"Yes," Father replied, "that is one comfort for the sufferings mortals endure, and I hope you find solace in it. Others suggest that we suffer due to our poor exercise of the Free Will God gave us."

"I assure you, sir, I chose none of the suffering I have endured."

"No, I believe not," Father returned. "Having lost a wife far too soon, I find myself in complete agreement with you. We must bear our lot as we can, for whatever is, is."

It was the one moment of gravity during the course of dinner. After that solemn moment, the conversation turned to lighter topics, and Mrs. Burgess returned to her former vivacity. As she had lived in London, and our guests sometimes spent winters there, she engaged in a lively discussion of the plays they had seen, with special admiration given to Sarah Siddons' Lady Macbeth.

"And what about you, Miss Collington," she asked. "Do you enjoy the theatre?"

"Unfortunately, I cannot say that I do, having never seen the best, only amateur theatricals and once or twice a troupe of strolling players in Exeter. In the former, I would often know the players and could never get past having just seen Rosalind or Jacques at dinner the week before, making the whole production seem like just a poor game of pretend. In the latter, if it was a play I knew and loved, I couldn't bear to hear the playwright's words butchered by third-rate actors."

"And you've never been to London?"

I shook my head.

"Well," she said, "we must find a way to send you! But did you know Mrs. Siddons also tours? I am certain she has been to Bath, which is not too far. I've heard that in the provinces she has even dared to take on Hamlet as a breeches part – if you can call it that."

"You're quite right, Mrs. Burgess," interrupted Mr. Ramsay. "I've always thought Hamlet a spineless excuse for a man, with all his indecisive philosophizing. It hardly counts as a breeches part, does it?" Here he gave a coarse laugh. "A real man would have just run the usurper through and taken the throne!"

Mrs. Burgess was polite enough to laugh at this vulgarity before saying, "No, Mr. Ramsay, I only meant that Mrs. Siddons is too proper and refined to show her legs in men's stockings and breeches. She has arranged some sort of toga or similar drapery to give the Dane a more classical air while keeping her own person modestly covered. Which, I suppose, is hardly worse than the usual costumery, for who knows what the Danes were wont to wear in that dim past?"

Gazing at her with some admiration, Father asked, "Mrs. Burgess, I am intrigued to know how you came by your extensive reading and education."

"Oh, Thomas' and my circumstances may belie it, but we come from an old landed family in Sussex. Father always insisted on all the improvements and education for his children: reading, mathematics, sciences, duelling for the boys, music and drawing and needlework for me. He sent our elder brother, Jonathan, to study the law, but a lot of good it did us, for when he inherited the estate, he let it slip away through dissipation and neglect, refusing all of Thomas' advice on its management. Fortunately, I had my portion and had already married Captain Burgess, but poor Thomas was forced to go into trade."

"Such a pity," Father said. "It seems your life has been one trial after another."

"Oh, do not worry on my account. The greatest blow was the loss of my husband, and that was nearly two years ago now. I feel my spirits begin to recover, much as I miss him, and I begin to sense life's possibilities once more." She finished by looking over at me.

After dinner, as we women retired to the drawing room, I could not help noticing once more Mrs. Burgess' uncommon stature, which was not all to do with height alone, for in truth, she was not much taller than Mrs. Graves or Mrs. Ramsay. No, it was something else, her upright bearing and deportment, combined with a sense of vivacity. Not that she had any hint of bubbly girlishness; it was more a sense of energy contained, ready to be unleashed at any moment, and briefly revealed when she stepped toward the drawing room or turned to address a remark from one of our guests with a direct gaze, a frank expression, and a genuine enthusiasm, no matter the topic at hand. She was quite unreserved, yet never gauche or impertinent.

How different must her upbringing and parental counsel have been from my own! It was a wonder that her open, hopeful nature had survived the tragedies and disappointments of her life so far; or could it be, I pondered, that her very energy and optimism had helped her bear these hurts in a manner equal to my father's recommended reserve and self-mastery?

Once the card tables were broken out and a game set up, Mrs. Burgess took a lively interest in all the gossip of the neighbourhood, paying as much attention to the talk as to the cards in her hand. She seemed eager to hear of the comings and goings of the great families, which ones were making for London for the remainder of the season and which were staying in the country, sometimes putting in humourous remarks. These were never cruel, but showed a wry view of all the quirks and oddities of human nature.

Finally, she looked at me and said, "Oh, look at you, Miss Collington, sitting there so silent, all reserve and decorum, while we prattle on. You must think me quite the gossip! Or is something making you especially quiet this evening?"

Could she have guessed something of my conversation with Anthony, or that other event that had so perturbed my thoughts? "Oh, not at all," I protested, "I was enjoying the conversation greatly. It is not often that we have such lively and witty discourse."

"Come, now, Lizzie," said Mrs. Simmons. "You know it's not a fortnight since your great shock, and you haven't been quite the same since."

The other guests had all heard the story, of course, but Mrs. Burgess was innocent of it. "What kind of shock, pray tell?" she asked.

"It was nothing, really," I said, but Mrs. Simmons insisted on going through the story, leaving out the more salacious moments.

"A quite forward rogue, he was," she concluded.

"It must have been quite frightening for all of you," Mrs. Burgess remarked, her eyes wide. She turned to me. "And you refused to give him your necklace, with a pistol pointed at you? How ever did you muster the courage?"

"As it was my only memento of my mother," I replied, "that in itself was enough to carry me forward. But he got the better of me in the end. It is a bitter loss."

"Quite bold, our Lizzie was, at least at first," Mrs. Simmons said. "But then she fainted."

"Did you?" asked Mrs. Burgess, as if this was the most shocking thing of all. I could only nod, seeing no way to deny what Mrs. Simmons had seen with her own eyes, yet somehow wishing I could. "I'm surprised," Mrs. Burgess went on. "You seem quite the mistress of your emotions, all composure and self-mastery."

"Oh, that is Lizzie, to a T," said Mrs. Simmons. "Reserve and composure, those are the bywords of good breeding, as Mr. Collington always taught both Lizzie and Jamie. But too much of that is unhealthy, in my opinion, and I sometimes wonder what Lizzie has bottled up inside her. There's more going on in there than she lets on, her mind sometimes wanders so when she should be applying herself to her improvement."

I blushed at this frank assessment of my character, and at Mrs. Simmons having caught me out when I thought I had kept my distractions well hidden, but Mrs. Burgess saved me by turning the conversation back to the highwayman. "Yes, I've heard of this outlaw. They say he's quite bold."

Just then the men returned to us from the library and Mr. Graves caught the end of her remark. "He'll be caught soon enough, if he keeps wearing that same burgundy coat he's worn so far."

"Are there plans for his capture?" Mrs. Burgess asked. "I practically fear to leave the village with such outlaws about."

"Oh, I don't think you, nor any of us, need worry, Mrs. Burgess," Mr. Graves assured her. "The gang has confined itself so far to robbing the nobility, Barons and above. They don't seem interested in the likes of us. He even gave the Marquis of Whinside a lecture as he was robbing him, something about all the good the ill-gotten gold would do the poor in Exeter."

"Isn't that what they all say?" put in Mrs. Smith.

"I don't doubt it's a lot of flummery, but this one actually seems to fancy himself some sort of Robin Hood. Apparently he went on at length about the nobility plundering the commoners, and he views his thievery as merely levelling the field."

"He sounds quite the Jacobin!" interjected Mrs. Burgess.

"He made no such statements to us," I said. "He was quite well dressed and had the manner and address of a gentleman. I wouldn't be surprised to learn he's a person of gentility, or a nobleman who has fallen into debt." I looked around at the gentlemen present and continued in a conspiratorial whisper. "Perhaps he is even someone we would recognize with his mask off!"

Mr. Graves smiled with the others, then said, "But as to plans for his capture, Sir Morris, who holds the office of Sheriff of the county, seems wholly ineffectual. There's some talk of involving the militia."

"Oh, the militia can never help," said Mr. Ramsay. "They're too busy quelling the riots in Exeter."

"Perhaps some music would relieve us from this grim subject?" Father offered. Remembering that Mrs. Burgess had mentioned that she missed her pianoforte, I asked if she would like to play for us. She protested her lack of practice only for a moment before agreeing. She began with two popular songs, hesitating only slightly here and there, but otherwise playing with a lyricism and taste that would have shamed many musicians of more recent tutelage. Then she invited me to join her in a Bach four-hand duet that she found amongst our stacks of music. I was only glad that I could keep up with her and not shame Mrs. Simmons, who had served as my music teacher. We finished with a popular song, Mrs. Burgess accompanying my voice. Our audience was well pleased with us, and Mrs. Burgess beamed up at me from her stool as if she had never enjoyed an evening more.

With that, the party broke up, Mrs. Smith offering our special guest a ride home in her chaise.

When the last guests had departed, Father said to me, "We must make every effort to ensure that Mrs. Burgess feels at home here and receives all the benefits of our notice. It must be a lonely existence, with no relations here but her brother, and him so often away. Elizabeth, I hope you will call upon her often and take pains to be seen in public with her, as this will help her to widen her acquaintance in good society, which is the only comfort remaining to her. We must have her to dinner every week."

I readily agreed to this plan, as I looked forward to increasing my acquaintance with such an intriguing character, whose personality was so opposite to my own.

"That is well," Father replied. "I feared that jealousy might prompt you to keep your distance."

"Jealousy!"

"Certainly, for who could blame you for fearing that such an intelligent, lively, and well-bred woman, still in the prime of her youth and possessed of quite an attractive person, could be a rival for a certain young lord's affections?"

"Father, I think you are quite in love yourself! One evening with Mrs. Burgess and she has captured your heart! When do you plan to propose?"

I let the matter rest with this teasing, having no wish to reveal my morning conversation with Anthony at that moment, and certain he would not be pleased if I told him the simple truth that Lord Highdown would have even less interest in his son marrying a captain's widow than a vicar's daughter.


	4. Chapter 4

**4**

The second time I saw the highwayman, I found his gloved hand clasped over my mouth as I came awake in my own bed. I began to struggle, as any girl of pure virtue and good upbringing would, but the thief held a finger to his lips, then whispered, "Be still, for I have no intention of harming you. I come only to return you this." He pulled out my mother's string of pearls, and held it before me, each pale sphere catching glints of moonlight coming in through the now open window. "Now, if you will promise me not to scream, I will remove my hand and return the necklace to its rightful place."

Six weeks had now passed since the evening of the robbery, and if memories of the feelings the affair had provoked troubled me at all, it was not often, and not greatly. I felt I had nearly forgotten him. Yet now here he was, in my very bedchamber. To retain my honor, I should have cried out the moment he removed his hand, whatever promise I had made in nodding my head. To my shame, I did not.

"What do you want?" I asked in a whisper.

"Why, you, of course," he replied, leaning toward me. With the moonlight behind him, he appeared as little more than a threatening shape looming over me, topped by his cocked hat. I cringed and shrunk away. "No, not in that way," he whispered. Turning his head, he seemed to realize the dark shape the moonlight made of him. He rose and went around to the other side of my bed, kneeling beside it. "There, now we can see each other equally." Such a considerate rogue! Now I could see his face, or what was visible of it above his crêpe mask. His eyes were alight with that same energy and humour, as if he never felt more alive than when robbing carriages or breaking into young ladies' bedrooms.

"I said I would not harm you," he went on. "You must not take me for a common highwayman. I do not make it a habit to rob any but the highest nobility."

"Yet you robbed me."

"Yes, for I took you for the daughter of a nobleman. You certainly looked the part, and who else would the son of an earl spend his attentions on? It was only after circling back to follow your carriage home – yes, that is how thoroughly you captivated me! – that I discovered my mistake. And so I come now to return the necklace, and to see you again. Will you allow me?"

Then with the greatest gentleness he secured the necklace in its place.

"But your behaviour toward my person in the carriage!" I whispered. "You seem all gentility now, but that was the work of a ruffian."

"For that, I do apologize. I don't often steal kisses while I steal purses. Yet I was quite carried away in my role as leader of bandits. In this highwayman's life, one gets used to taking things one wants; it can become quite a habit."

"Is that what you call it? A role, as with an actor on a stage?"

"Yes, and in more ways than one. But my behaviour toward you was no act. I was so enchanted I simply couldn't help myself."

"What could I have done to elicit such feelings? I'm sure I have never before prompted such lewd behaviour."

"I will not take the trouble to flatter your beauty, for you cannot be unaware of your own charms, and I have seen many beautiful women in my day. No, it was more than this, it was the way you looked steadily into my eyes, even with my pistol levelled at you, the way you calmly denied my request of the necklace. 'Here is a woman of uncommon bravery and fortitude!' I told myself. 'Yet one whose heart is locked away under layers of icy reserve. If I could win that heart, what a prize it would be!' And so I overstepped the bounds of decency, to my regret. Yet I felt you respond to my advances, I know I did!"

He looked at me for a moment, perhaps expecting me to acknowledge those feelings I should never have had. I remained silent.

"And then you fainted," he went on. "I must know, was that in earnest?"

I looked away from him. I could have given him an untruth, and much since then would have been easier, but my pride would not let me. "No, for whatever fear I might have felt was mastered by that composure and reserve with which I have been taught to meet all of life. Yet other feelings were less easy to overcome; it was to hide those that I pretended to faint."

"Yes, I knew it! Perhaps what was wrongly begun can now be carried forward with more honour." Here he leaned down, lifting the bottom edge of his mask at the last moment before kissing me, gently this time, on the mouth, and caressing my cheek with the backs of his fingers.

I allowed the kiss to linger for just a moment before placing a hand on his shoulder and pushing him away, glad that he pressed himself on me no further. "You are too forward, sir!" I hissed, ignoring the absurdity of accusing a housebreaker and robber of being too forward.

He took my hand from his shoulder and held it. "I will steal no more kisses now, but look to have them one day freely given."

I snatched my hand away from him. "What possible interest could I have in further intercourse with a criminal? I thank you for returning the necklace, but now you must leave. You have already placed me in a most compromising position."

"Discomforting you is the farthest from being my wish, so I will take my leave," he said, crossing to the window. He placed one foot on the casement before turning back to me, affording me an excellent view of his shapely calf outlined in the moonlight. "Yet this is not the last we will see of each other. Expect me when you least expect me!" With those last words, he disappeared over the sill.

I could not help going to the casement and peering out to see him scampering down the drainpipe with the agility of an acrobat. Reaching the ground, he turned to look back at the window. I drew back, but I was certain he had seen me looking after him.


	5. Chapter 5

**5**

Rebecca – for Mrs. Burgess had insisted I call her by her given name after that first dinner – gave a shout of exhilaration as her horse jumped the low hedge separating the moor from the lane that would take us home. Her exultation turned to alarm on the landing, however, as she was jostled in her seat. How she maintained her balance I do not know, for she was pushed quite forward by the impact, leaning low over the horse's neck, with only the hornof the saddle for a handhold.

"That was a greater challenge than I expected," she panted as she drew her horse up beside my own. She seemed thrilled rather than frightened by the experience, her eyes wide and glowing. "I'd almost forgotten the difficulty of riding aside. Would you like to try it again?" She seemed ready to turn her horse around and jump the hedge in the opposite direction.

I politely demurred.

"Lizzie, what is it?" she asked. "You've been even quieter than usual, and you look pale."

As well I might, for it was the day after the highwayman's nocturnal visit. Needless to say, I had slept little after his acrobatic departure.

"I am quite well," I said, "but I believe it more prudent to leave such a challenge until you have had more practice."

"Prudence! One can miss much of life through prudence. And how can you counsel me to it, when you just took the same risk as I? Confess it, you found it a thrill, though one could hardly tell by looking at you. You might be sitting in your drawing room waiting for the tea to be brought in."

"I assure you, I enjoyed that immensely."

Rebecca grasped my wrist and pretended to feel the pulse there. "Ah, yes," she said. "I believe I can just detect a slight increase in the pace of your heart. Careful, or next your excitement will break through all your sangfroid."

I had to smile at this, and she set off once more with a laugh, no doubt feeling she had won a small victory.

Such teasing had become her favourite pastime as our acquaintance had grown. She liked nothing better than to prick my reserve by making me laugh out loud at a witty remark, or even by provoking me to anger at her impertinence. Yet it was all done with such friendly good humour that I could not long remain cross with her. If I responded with a knit brow and a sharp remark, she would laugh, saying, "So you are not made of ice after all!" If her teasing managed to provoke a smile, her eyes would come alight with the deepest glow of affection. She simply could not understand the reserve to which I had been so long trained that it now seemed my true nature.

A month had now passed since our first meeting, and our acquaintance, begun on such intimate terms, had only deepened. We found ourselves often together, for not only did Father encourage the association, but he had suggested that I assist Rebecca in organizing the Leighton Charitable Society Auction, an endeavour for which she had readily volunteered. She seemed to share my passion for helping the poor, which Father had fostered in me from a young age, as part of our Christian duty. Our work on the auction – which involved many hours in the Leighton Village Hall cataloging the many valuable but unwanted possessions donated by nobles and gentry from miles around – combined with frequent visits in one or the other of our houses to play music, discuss and exchange books, or work at our embroidery; plus our numerous excursions in the out-of-doors, either afoot or ahorse – together these afforded all the occasions necessary to plumb each other's characters and find each in the other a most suitable and complementary companion.

On my part, I found her good humour and open nature intriguing, so unlike my own, or that of anyone I had ever known. If there had been anything flighty or silly in her character, as there so often was in the girls whose acquaintance I barely managed to tolerate, I might have been put off. Yet her openness and enthusiasm were grounded in good sense and intelligence. The fact that she was only a few years older than I, but with a much greater wealth of experience, meant she could serve as a guide in those areas neither Mrs. Simmons nor I felt quite comfortable discussing.

Too, behind her near-constant good cheer there were moments of unexplained gravity. At odd times as we sat reading in our drawing room or her parlour, enjoying that companionable silence with which we had grown so comfortable, I would find her staring abstractedly out a window. "Oh, it is nothing," she would respond to my inquiry. "I was just pondering a passage in my book." Then we might discuss the skill with which the author had produced this sentimental effect, whether it sprang from the inherent natures and concerns of the characters, or seemed rather a mere twist of the plot to entrap the reader's sympathies. We found ourselves of like minds in favouring the former. The conversation would then turn to other topics, or we would go back to our reading, the moment of gravity apparently forgotten.

Rebecca showed no such seriousness when we were out of doors, and even her near fall had not dampened her spirits. Now, setting off after her as she attempted an unsettled canter, I was curious how she had come to be so bold. I caught up to her as the lane entered a forest of oak and chestnut and we slowed to a walk, admiring for a moment the sunlight dappling the understory in a pattern of greens and golds. "Have you not always ridden aside?" I asked. "Or is it simply that you have not had occasion to ride of late?"

"Oh, no! You might find it shocking, but once we were married, on those few occasions we had of riding together, Captain Burgess insisted that I ride astride, believing the side saddle a dangerous contraption, no matter the decorum it offered. As for that other reason young ladies are told never to ride astride, it hardly mattered once we were married."

As I absorbed this revelation, two jays began squabbling in an oak nearby, their hoarse, squawking protests piercing the silence of the forest. Then one chased the other over the lane ahead of us, tan streaks with flashes of blue.

"And did you find it easier?" I asked at length.

"Oh, much! I would have asked Lord Highdown's stable master for a men's saddle if it would not have shocked him so. As easy as you and Maggie made that low hedge look, imagine what you could do if you rode astride! I tell you, Lizzie, you are twice the horsewoman of any man I have seen, you sit your mount with such ease and balance, even at a canter."

"Yet I dare not gallop, or try a tall fence. How often did I envy Jamie and the other men as they raced off after the fox, leaving me to the company of a groomsman! The other ladies who chose to ride to the hunt were always far behind."

Rebecca smiled at the unaccustomed fervor of my remark, saying, "Then you have an additional inducement to marriage, for we widows and old married women can get away with much that young ladies cannot."

Marriage had not been a frequent topic of our conversation, for it was as trite as talking of the weather, and I had too much of it with my other friends, whose opinions ranged from the lack of eligible bachelors in our neighbourhood to a determination to begin attending public assemblies in Exeter in hopes of meeting young men of trade. I had met two or three such men on occasion, and though I felt I had nothing against the way in which they made their living – indeed, it had much to recommend it, in contrast to the dependent nature of Father's income – yet I could not imagine making a match with any of them. For, no matter how refined their manners or attractive their persons, their conversation was as insipid as that of our neighbour girls, saving that the topics were of trade and the price of wool and the vicissitudes of taxation. If any had ever read a book, it was in the long-ago days of their schooling, and if they appreciated music, it was of the sort heard in taverns and on the ships onto which they loaded their goods. Though I told myself I did not hold myself above them, I could not see that we had enough in common to make a happy marriage.

It was here that Rebecca showed tastes broader than my own. Marriage to a man of the Navy had introduced her to a number of sea chanties and tavern songs which she remembered hearing with pleasure. She could even pick out one or two of them on the pianoforte. "Surely you cannot believe," said she, "that the taste and discernment we show in our appreciation of Haydn or Pleyel are diminished by the simple pleasures of a tavern song, so long as its subject is one of decorum? Even your much-admired Dibdin takes pleasure in naval themes."

Dibdin had been our one point of disagreement, for when I mentioned my admiration for that popular composer, she admitted to enjoying his melodies, but stated that she found many of his lyrics odious, looking quite put out when she said it. Then she appeared to shake off her mood, teasing me with, "Take 'Meg of Wapping' – hardly a fit subject for a young lady, you must admit." I found her attitude surprising, for otherwise she was broad-minded, and even Father saw nothing harmful in that tale of the woman who married seven sailors. But at length I remembered "Tom Bowling," Dibdin's popular lament for a dead man of the sea, allowing me to explain away her "dislike" as merely a wish to avoid reminders of her own departed husband.

Rebecca's tastes in novels were even broader and less decorous. As a married woman, she had access to those works which society deemed too salacious for unmarried girls, and she shared them readily with me. I blushed when she removed a book from a small _secretaire_ she had brought with her from London: the first volume of Richardson's _Clarissa,_ which Father would never have allowed in our house, though recently he had spoken favorably of Frances Burney. "You may read it when you visit me here," she said, "and none will be the wiser. I'm sure a girl of your self-mastery will be able to resist the temptations that would threaten a reader of a more susceptible mind." Her eyes crinkled at the corners as she made this statement.

If Rebecca introduced me to a wider range of music and reading, I was the tutor in our walks about the countryside, for she was wholly ignorant of botany, the accomplishment in which I took the greatest pride and interest for its own sake.

"I have always had the greatest appreciation for all types of flowers," Rebecca said. "There's something almost sensual about their beauty, and of course the aroma can be quite intoxicating. But as to their names, their identifying features, or their times of blooming, I could never get far."

Walks on fine days being exactly what the doctor had prescribed for her, we often found ourselves roving the moors and dells around Leighton together. My solitary walks had been confined to the Earl's estate, but Father was less restrictive when he knew I would have Rebecca's company, allowing the opportunity to visit the wilder tracts farther afield. She proved herself an excellent companion, eager to follow me in my determination not to let a single species escape my close observation, no matter how awkwardly placed. As we clambered up steep banks or ventured to the edges of soggy bogs, she showed not a care for the mud on her half-boots and the hem of her petticoats, nor for the exertion involved. The vigorous exercise seemed to agree with her, and any trace of her former ailment vanished. Only on the steepest crags, where I would often scramble to examine the different mosses and liverworts growing in the crevices, would she show hesitation, sometimes reaching out a hand for help up or clutching my arm for balance. This seemed in contrast to the bravado she showed while ahorse.

As spring advanced, more and more of my favourite species were showing themselves. If I would speak of the likelihood of seeing the first opening of a particular flower on a particular day, Rebecca would declare amazement at my clairvoyance when my prediction proved accurate. "It is simply paying attention to nature's rhythms and recording them," I said. "Have you never read Gilbert White's excellent volume on Selborne?"

Despite her professed lack of botanical knowledge, she would show the keenest interest as we crouched together before a flower-strewn bank, peering through my hand glass at the different structures of a bluebell or a primrose as I pointed out the pistil, stamen, and the petals that formed the corolla. "How pretty!" she would exclaim, or "What a delicate beauty!" Or, in the case of the marsh violet, "I will not say what that reminds me of!" No matter how I pressed her, she would not reveal what this was, but would say only that it was no wonder the poets speak of the flower of love.

* * *

><p>In addition to our work on the auction, Rebecca often joined me on my charitable rounds in the neighbourhood. I always enjoyed these visits – what had begun as a chore when I was young had soon grown into a favourite activity, as I came to experience a real joy in the grateful looks and smiles with which the poor greeted us. I had almost begun to think of them as my friends.<p>

If anything, Rebecca's concern for the poor was greater than my own; as much as she appreciated my enthusiasm, she often lamented the likelihood that such charity as we could offer only eased a small measure of suffering, and could never truly raise the poor from their abject condition. Even the upcoming auction, which would raise money not only for the destitute of our parish but also for an orphanage in Exeter, promised to do but little, the need was so great. "So much is out of their control," she would say of the indigent, "or even ours – the wool prices, the shuttered mills, this year's poor harvest, the wars."

"Yet our efforts must count for something," I replied, "they are always met with such gratitude. It seems we are doing as much as we can."

"So say we, but are we truly? I ask you, Lizzie, if there were any other thing that could be done, even a greater sacrifice than these hours spent on the auction, would you do it?"

I asked her what kind of sacrifice she meant, but as she would not be more specific, I could not answer, but assured her that I would go to great lengths to fulfil the duty Father had taught me.

One of the first families Rebecca and I visited together occupied a particularly mean hovel, a place where I had visited often. The yard was all mud, fouled with the droppings of the pigs and chickens the family kept.

"Hello, Mother Smith," I called from the yard – for that was her style in the neighbourhood – and soon the matron of the house appeared, a stout woman in a threadbare smock, with a dingy lace cap covering curls of an indeterminate shade. "Miss Elizabeth," she greeted me, "it's grand to see you, as always."

As I handed over what stuff we had brought – eggs, produce from our garden, a brace of rabbits donated by Holbourne's gamekeeper – I introduced Rebecca, then asked after the family, which included her husband, who made his living as a woodcutter, and four small children. She assured me they all were fine. "And your father?" I asked.

"Much the same, if not worse."

"May I see him?"

We entered the cottage, which was really little more than a hut. If the odour was foul in the yard, it was worse inside, for something about Mrs. Smith's father's skin ailment gave off a putrid smell. The interior had all the appearances one might expect of a home kept by a woman overwhelmed by duties as mother, gardener, cook, nurse, housekeeper, and pieceworker. I was glad to see that Rebecca, if she was bothered by any of this, did not let it show, but took a lively interest in the children running about the single room that served as parlour, dining room, kitchen, and sick room for old Mr. Garner, whose cot was pulled up near the fire.

"How are you today, Mr. Garner?" I asked in a loud voice, for he was quite deaf.

"Been better, been worse," he responded.

"I brought you a new salve the apothecary recommended," I said, pulling a vial from the pocket of my walking dress. I showed it to Mrs. Smith and related the apothecary's instructions. The remainder of the visit was spent answering Mr. Garner's questions about certain corners of Holbourne with which I was familiar. He liked nothing better than to reminisce about his youth when he had run a flock of sheep on those lands, before the current Earl had enclosed them.

As we made to depart, Mrs. Smith exclaimed, "Oh, I nearly forgot, I had hoped to have that panel for your fireplace screen finished by now, but one thing and the other have got in the way."

"Now, Mrs. Smith," I said, putting a hand on her arm, "I've told you not to put yourself out, you have enough to do as it is."

"But you've been so good to us, dear, and your father, too."

"Father may be generous, but I assure you I have only my own self-interest at heart. Your smiles and your friendly greetings, and the warm self-regard with which I can then hold myself, are ample compensation for these trifles I bring you. I hardly think of myself as generous at all, and neither should you, since I am so well rewarded for my efforts."

"That's as may be, but I aim to have it done while you'll still be needing a fire in your parlour this spring." She smiled and we left her waving after us from her yard.

When we were a distance away, Rebecca took a deep breath, saying, "Did you really mean what you said about generosity?"

"I did. Even now I can feel the warm glow of self-satisfaction coursing through me, and my own self-regard is several notches higher. I call that an excellent bargain. Perhaps I should go into trade!"

"You joke, but there is a real effort involved in visiting such a place and witnessing such misery. Your composure must have stood you in good stead."

I looked at her in surprise. "Not for all the world would I let Mrs. Smith or her father see me wrinkle my nose or look askance at their condition of life! What is fifteen minutes to me, when they must bear it the year round? And what of you? You bore it equally well."

She dismissed this with a tip of her head and a serious look. "I have seen my share of squalor. But you! You have led such a sheltered life. It is not many girls of such genteel upbringing who could enter that place without some sign of disgust – or who would go at all."

"I suppose we should both feel quite smug then!"

"No, not smug, but neither should you undervalue yourself, Lizzie. I – I certainly – " She trailed off, and I thought I saw a blush rising to her cheeks.

"Certainly what?" I prompted.

She gave a half smile, but her eyes remained serious. "I certainly do not undervalue you."

"Oh, come, you will turn my head with such talk." I hooked my arm inside hers, and we turned our steps toward the Parsonage.


	6. Chapter 6

**6**

As close as Rebecca and I had become, I had less opportunity to come to know her brother, Mr. Nighthorn, as he was so often in London. On those occasions when he did accompany his sister to a social engagement, he revealed himself a taciturn fellow. On one musical evening at the Parsonage – for Rebecca loved nothing better than a chance to play our pianoforte, and even better if it was before a parlour packed with listeners, an enthusiasm Father was only too happy to accommodate – he sat at the back, remaining aloof from the other guests. During one piece, when Rebecca and I were at the instrument together, I glanced over at him, observing him when he thought himself unobserved. For a moment I thought he was glowering at me, until I realized the look was meant for Rebecca herself, who remained lost in the music. I could not tell whether it was a look of anger, disgust, or perhaps jealousy. Then his eyes shifted to me and quickly away.

After the recital, I noticed him over by the sideboard, where he was filling his plate from the cold collation laid out there. Mr. Ramsay was in the midst of another story about the highwayman, to which I had been attending closely, though careful to avoid making my interest too apparent. "The rascal and his gang have committed another robbery," he said. "That's the fourth since he accosted you, Miss Collington. He's taken to wearing different coats, so he won't be recognised so readily from a distance. And he always seems to know just when the nobles will be travelling, by what routes, and how much wealth they will have with them." There was much tsk-tsking, but as these events seemed far removed from our social sphere, the talk soon turned to other matters. I took the opportunity to excuse myself and approached Rebecca's brother. Rebecca herself stood nearby, talking affably with Father.

"Did you not enjoy the recital, Mr. Nighthorn?" I asked.

"No, I found it very fine," he said, his eyes on his plate.

"It was just that, at one point, when I happened to look up, you seemed – not quite happy, as if you had rather be anywhere else than here."

"You saw that, did you?" He could not look at me, his eyes roving the room until they lit on Rebecca. As this seemed to discomfit him even more, he turned completely about, noticing a doorway leading into the kitchen and pantry. He sidled toward it, tilting his head in a manner that indicated I should follow.

This was odd behaviour, but I followed, unwilling to leave his former attitude unexplained. I advanced as far as the doorway, where he could speak to me in a low voice without being overheard, yet we were still not, in the strictest sense, alone.

"It's – Rebecca, you see –" he began, but then did not seem able to continue. Finally, he began again. "I can see the two of you are becoming quite close. Only, y'see, she does this, takes up with people, then drops them." I noticed his accent lacked its earlier polish, and wondered if all of his rubbing of shoulders with the London merchant class was wearing off on him. He still couldn't look at me, but took a great interest in the wallpaper of the passageway. "I wouldn't see you hurt, is all."

I was too stunned to speak for several moments. What could he mean by this? Did he mean somehow to protect me by these words, and if so, why should he be so concerned for my welfare? At last I found my voice. "I hardly know what to make of such an impertinent communication, sir. Do you not think me capable of making my own judgments about your sister's character?"

"No, I didn't mean – it's just –"

"Having come to know your sister quite well over these past weeks, I find such a statement hard to credit. If it was truly meant as a kindness, then I thank you for it, but I beg you never to speak to me on this subject again. Now, if you will excuse me." I turned to rejoin the other guests.

Could it be that Rebecca was using acquaintance with our family to improve her standing in the neighbourhood, and she would drop us as her circle grew? Yet on at least one occasion she had turned down an invitation to a much more fashionable house than our own in favour of dining with us and our usual small circle. This didn't seem the behaviour of a zealous social climber. Yet what else could Mr. Nighthorn have meant? I put the statement down to some odd type of sibling rivalry and thought no more about it.

Over the next weeks, Rebecca continued to show herself as nothing other than a loyal friend, one whose cheerful spirits had gradually begun to pull me out of my habitual reserve. She even proposed the idea of a trip to Bath in May, where Dora Jordan was to appear as Rosalind in _As You Like It. _The trip must needs be short, only a week, for we had much to do to prepare for the auction the following month, but it would allow us to take in the sights of that fashionable city. With Rebecca acting as my chaperone, and even offering to pay for most of the trip out of her pocket, Father readily agreed; he and Mrs. Simmons even suggested that this was too short a visit in which to take in all of Bath's wonders – by which they meant that I could hardly make the acquaintance of a suitable young gentleman in such a short period, much less develop the sort of attachment that would lead to marriage. I found their readiness to have Rebecca escort me in pursuit of a husband, not to mention financing the endeavour, quite mercenary. Too, much as I enjoyed a ball – and what young lady does not? – the prospect of dancing and making polite conversation over tea with complete strangers seemed daunting, even with an introduction by the Assembly Rooms' master of ceremonies to provide a veneer of propriety. No, I was certain that one week in Bath would be sufficient, if not more than I could stand.

* * *

><p>One day early in May, when an unexpected squall had kept us indoors, Rebecca and I sat in Father's library, Rebecca gazing in wonder at the ranks of journals I had filled over the years with drawings and pressed flowers, while I leafed through one of the travel narratives she had brought me, this one of a tour through India. I couldn't help thinking of Jamie as I gazed at the illustrations of elephants, tigers, jungles, snow-capped peaks, and the strangely-clad, brown-skinned people who lived there. Was he seeing such sights, and meeting such people? I almost envied him! For me, even the upcoming trip to Bath seemed an adventure; though it would only require a long day's coach journey, it would still be the farthest from home I had ever been. But to undertake a journey of years, and see such diverse and wonderful sights!<p>

I tried to imagine travelling to such far-off places, India, or perhaps the former colonies in America, but then I stopped myself when I remembered Father, feeling almost selfish. I was his only daughter. Who would care for him in his old age? I still remembered the day Jamie had left us; he had expressed his regrets at parting, to be sure, but his eyes had still blazed with excitement as he boarded the coach that carried him away from us. Could I see myself doing the same? No, it was more than likely that I would have to content myself, as Gilbert White had done, with intimate knowledge of a few square miles of my home country, and perhaps occasional trips to sample the exotic sights of Bath, or perhaps Portsmouth.

I was interrupted in these thoughts by Rebecca exclaiming, "Lizzie, these journals are quite wonderful!" She gestured to the one that lay open in her lap. "Your drawings of the flowers are exquisite, as are the scenes in which they are set, and your notes beside them are so insightful and reflect such joy in the endeavour! Why have you not shown them to me before?"

"I didn't think you would be interested, since your enthusiasm for botany was so slight until recently," I said.

"Don't be silly! I would be happy to see anything produced by your hand." She paused, and looked at the journal for a moment more. "It must be gratifying to have a pursuit that not only fills your days in spring and summer, but to which you can return with such agreeable reflections, no matter the weather or the time of year."

I agreed that it was, for this was the only one of my indoor pastimes at which I did not grow restless. As I copied a hastily sketched flower from my field journal or jotted down the details of when or where I had encountered it, I almost felt I was back on the moors or hunting along a particularly pleasant stream for a favourite plant, and I found I could work in my journals for hours at a time.

Rebecca bit her lip pensively as I described these feelings, then replied, "Yes, it must be a wonderful addition to an otherwise quiet life. But tell me, as engrossing as these pursuits are, do you not find yourself wishing for something more?"

"What do you mean?" I asked, conscious that I had often felt the same, yet unwilling to acknowledge dissatisfaction with a style of life for which I should be grateful.

"Well, for instance, for all your knowledge of botany, and for all the courses young women are allowed to take in this subject, you would never be allowed to go to Oxford to study it, and certainly not to teach it. And I've seen the way you look wistfully at the travel books I've given you, as if you'll never be allowed to see those places. Does it not seem we are as confined by these rules of propriety and our proper roles, as we are by the horns of our side-saddles?"

I had to smile, and told her that I had just been envying Jamie, as she no doubt thought I might when selecting this volume for me. "It is true, I have begun to think how I might see more and do more than my present circumstances allow; how I might make some mark in the world. As much as I enjoy my rambles, I can foresee the time when the country round about becomes too familiar, and I long for something different. Yet I am not sure that the restraints are necessarily those of our sex; more so, perhaps of my family's state, travel to exotic places being the province of the wealthy. Perhaps it is better to adapt to things as they are than to waste effort on lamenting them."

Rebecca started to respond to this declaration, her eyes flashing. Then she looked down at the journal she held in her hands for a moment before saying, "But Lizzie, you have so much to offer the world. Have you never thought of publishing these?"

As often as Rebecca enjoyed provoking my laughter, she did not smile as I laughed now. "Who would be interested in them? They are only the thoughts and sketches of a vicar's daughter, treating a very narrow and unextraordinary part of the world."

"Yes, and who would be interested in the letters of a country curate, musing about a single parish in Hampshire?"

I smiled, knowing she had won this point.

"Certainly there are no barriers to women publishing novels, or even political tracts. Why not these journals?"

"Even so, I would hardly know how to begin."

"Have confidence in yourself, in the first place," she said, then handed me another of the books she had brought. The volume bore the title, _A Vindication of the Rights of Woman, _by Mary Wollstonecraft. "This author has much to say on the value of women and the contributions we can make to the world when not encumbered by trivialities. But please, skip the first chapter – it has nothing to recommend it to either of us, as she criticizes both the Navy and the clergy." I thanked her for it and promised I would read it.

"As a first step toward making your skills better known," she went on, "perhaps you can contribute a drawing or a watercolour to the auction."

I gladly assented to this and then asked, "And what of you? Are you satisfied with this village life?" A doubt had begun to creep into my mind about the likelihood of Rebecca long remaining satisfied in our quiet neighbourhood, a doubt only confirmed by her statements. If she thought Devonshire society too confining, what was to keep her here? She certainly had the freedom to live where she would; since she had proposed the upcoming trip to Bath, I had even begun to wonder if she had an interest in removing to that city. It suddenly struck me what a loss that would be, and I couldn't help remembering what her brother had said of her.

"Yes, I am quite content here at present," she said.

"At present! And what mark would _you_ make in the world? Surely it will be difficult in such a place."

She looked about the room for a moment, and I regretted challenging her so bluntly. At last she said, "Having no extraordinary talents, I must content myself with doing what I can. For now, there is the auction. And after –" She paused and now looked at me directly. "You see, when I married, I was as trivial a girl as Miss Wollstonecraft so rightly criticizes. I had all the accomplishments to attract a husband, but no great passion, nothing like your own for botanical wonders. A fine figure, a dashing uniform, a gallant manner – these were all I cared for, and I thought they would be enough. And then, to have such a short time with Captain Burgess, and to lose him so soon! I have often wished we had been blessed with a child, as that is the most common cure for a woman's restlessness and proper channel for her ambition. But now I must look about me and see what there is to be done –" Here she broke off and looked abstractedly at the rain pelting the library window.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't mean to bring on such melancholy reflections."

She gave a wan smile, and then appeared to make a conscious effort to shake off her gloom, her smile twisting into a mischievous grin. "Speaking of husbands, talk in the village is that you have set your bonnet for Lord Burnside, that young nobleman who addressed your father so politely at church the day I met you."

This seemed an unaccountable and awkward change in the course of the conversation, quite unlike Rebecca. Though I felt myself colouring, I managed a tolerably composed answer. "If anyone has 'set a bonnet,' as you say, for him, it is Father and Mrs. Simmons on my behalf. They have lost all sense on the matter." I went on to outline my assessment of my poor prospects in this quarter. I paused when I came to my last conversation with Anthony, for I had told no one of it. Yet if I could not speak of it with a friend as close as Rebecca now was, then I could share it with no one. I told her how close he had come to declaring his feelings for me, and the manner in which I had stopped him before he could expose himself. "Was I right in doing so?" I asked.

Rebecca gave me a look of the greatest approbation. "Indeed, it was well done, assuming your characterization of his parents is accurate – and I'm sure it is, judging by the few members of the nobility I have known. It shows a remarkable forbearance, disinterestedness, and a great regard for the welfare of your friend."

"Oh, he has always been my dearest friend, at least –" and here I had to take a breath before casting my reserve aside, "at least until these past weeks, since your arrival."

Rebecca smiled, even blushing slightly. "Why, how uncharacteristically forthcoming of you! I will melt that icy reserve yet. And let me say, how fortunate I find myself in your friendship, for what would my days be without it? You make what would have been a solitary life here tolerable. And more than tolerable, for if I ever contemplated removal to a more fashionable and lively spot, the thought of leaving you would be more than enough to keep me here." She gazed into my eyes, as we both took a moment to absorb this new level of our intimacy.

If her customary kiss on my cheek as we parted was just that much warmer than usual, so too was the deep glow of affection which I carried with me upstairs to dress for dinner. My thoughts drifted toward the future and the growing likelihood that I would never find a suitable match, one that would satisfy both my heart and mind while providing security. Certainly the fact that we had heard nothing from Anthony over the past month was a sign that his family's plans for him were moving forward. If spinsterhood were my most likely fate, surely the comforts of having such a dear friend as Rebecca took much of the sting out of it. Many were the women, and not just those encountered in fictional visions of a feminine utopia, who contented themselves with close friendships with their own sex, even going so far as to combine their resources and establish a household together.

But what if Rebecca were to remarry, a possibility I met with what I might almost have characterised as jealousy? In that case, I consoled myself, I could be aunt to her children, assuming they settled locally, just as I would no doubt be to Anthony's, and to Jamie's when he returned from the colonies and settled nearby, as we all dearly hoped. It was not such a dismal prospect. I would have the freedom to pursue my botanical studies, and perhaps even publish them. I wondered what kind of income Mr. White had seen with the publication of his letters.

At table, Father noted how happy I seemed, and asked Mrs. Simmons if we had perhaps had a letter from Lord Burnside.


End file.
